


I Could List A Million Things (About You)

by el3anorrigby



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Boys Being Boys, Fluff, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-19 20:36:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7376500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/el3anorrigby/pseuds/el3anorrigby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What is the deal with Napoleon and injuries? And why does it affect Illya as well whenever the American gets injured?</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Could List A Million Things (About You)

**Author's Note:**

> Just a fluffy story of my favourite gorgeous boys and nothing else.

Illya groans inwardly. What is the deal with Napoleon and injuries? Even if it’s not necessarily his fault most of the time, the American seems to attract trouble like a magnet during their missions, or even when they’re not on one. It’s fast becoming a nasty habit of his and Illya wishes Napoleon could somehow avoid it. Like one would avoid the plague. Because when Napoleon gets hurt, it normally affects Illya as well.

He tends to Napoleon every time the American gets shot, every time a knife nicks his skin torn and bloody, he holds him close whenever his nightmares return (courtesy of dear Uncle Rudi) and the list he would do for him goes on. Illya does it all for Napoleon. Without complaint. But Illya fears there will come a time when his help won’t be enough to save his partner.

His latest injury, however, was unfortunately due to Gaby deciding to test the quality of their rented car’s tires and brakes, while they were on their way to their hotel after a reconnaissance job. 

“I was trying to avoid a big pothole! And it’s not my fault the car on our left had decided to swerve into our lane at the same time!” she had cried defensively when they stumbled out of the car. 

Fortunately, it was only a minor accident; their car banging into another, spinning a little out of control to the left before hitting a roadside barrier. But Napoleon had hit the side of his forehead hard on the passenger window at the impact.

“It’s going to swell,” Illya comments with worry when he sees Napoleon rubbing the reddened skin back and fro. He also notices a small cut on his hairline, a little bit of blood already trickling down his temple.

“Need to take care of that little cut, Cowboy. And the swelling. You need to put ice on it.”

“Just my luck, huh?” he whines and Illya can’t help but feel sorry for his partner. 

Now, recuperating back in their hotel room, Illya agitates when Napoleon seems to be taking his time in the bathroom. The head bump was only minor, surely Napoleon could manage on his own. But, somehow, he is unable to shake off his worry.

“What is he doing in there? It’s been ages,” he grumbles. Trying to concentrate on his chess game is proving to be futile when his eyes keep straying from the chessboard in front of him to the vicinity of Napoleon’s bedroom. 

“Maybe he’s taking care of his bruise,” Gaby says from behind the magazine she’s holding in her hands, her feet up on the table as she leans back on the sofa she’s lounging on, and then adds almost like an afterthought, “You may want to check on him.”

“Why does it always have to be me?” 

Suddenly, Gaby’s eyes are settled on him, rather annoyingly so. It really is her fault and not Illya’s that Napoleon is hurt but somehow, Gaby has managed to make him feel terribly guilty.

“He can take care of himself,” he snaps. 

The magazine now is on her lap as she glares at him. “That line almost never comes from you when Solo gets hurt. Never. You’d be the first to mother over him no matter how trivial his injury is. What’s the difference now, Illya?”

 _No matter how trivial?_ Why did Gaby have to throw that line at him? Obviously, something had crossed her mind for her to say it, something in which she probably had seen brewing between Napoleon and him, and Illya wonders whether Gaby thinks he is worrying more than necessary when it comes to Napoleon’s well-being.

And although Illya hates to admit it, Gaby just might be right, for he has never said those harsh words before (he had only been harsh towards Napoleon during the Vinciguerra affair and he had warmed up to him after that incident in Napoleon’s room) and up to that moment, as Gaby bores her eyes on him, it still feels odd that those words had come from his mouth. Illya was always busy taking care of Napoleon than say such a thing. So why had he jumped when Gaby had asked him to do the most natural thing he would do? Deep down inside, perhaps Illya already knows the exact reasons to his question.

Not wanting to prolong the unwarranted argument, Illya gets up on his feet and strides over to Napoleon’s room, all the while purposely avoiding Gaby’s trailing gaze. He pushes the door open, quickly walks over to the bathroom. There is a faint light emanating from the slightly ajar door. Taking a deep breath, Illya knocks at it softly. 

“Cowboy? Are you all right?” Illya starts, but when there is no answer, he asks him again. “Cowboy? Gaby asked me to check on you. You’ve been in there forever.”

“It hurts a little,” comes Napoleon’s answer. 

Sighing, Illya tentatively enters the bathroom which suddenly feels a tad too small when two grown men are in it.

“Cowboy,” Illya says, sees Napoleon facing the mirror over the sink, holding what looks like an ice-wrapped handkerchief pressed to his forehead. Clumsily, he is holding his hair up which has flopped messily over his forehead with one hand causing some of the ice to slip out from the too-small handkerchief and fall into the sink.

Automatically, Illya spins Napoleon around. How hopeless is Cowboy without him? Once facing each other, he sees the cut on Napoleon’s hairline is now neatly tapped with a layer of gauze. At least that is taken care of. Somehow, even if he is a stubborn bastard, Napoleon is quite obedient when it comes to Illya tending to his injuries and this time it is no different. He lets Illya’s fingers linger where they should, hooking one underneath his chin to tilt his face up, but he is wearing a slight frown currently, his eyes narrowing at the Russian. 

“What?” Illya asks rather defensively at Napoleon’s scrutiny.

“I was waiting for you to come. It took you quite a while to get in here,” Napoleon quips, the slight smirk on his lips unmistakable. 

Illya chooses to ignore Napoleon’s smart comment, merely says, “Let me see,” before moving Napoleon’s hand away, the one which is still holding onto the icepack, to check on the bruise. It is now visibly swollen, the skin now redder than ever. He must have hit it quite hard, Illya realised, not like what he had initially thought. Not thinking twice, Illya then run his fingers over it, feels the coldness there; both from Napoleon’s skin and his intense stare. Swallowing a little, Illya orders his partner to go wait for him on the bed while he goes to make a new icepack. Napoleon nods and does as he is told. Not a few minutes later, Illya returns to the room, closes the door behind him, finds Napoleon is already lying flat on the bed. 

“Sit up,” he commands.

A sense of guilt is washing over Illya, he doesn’t even dare to form full sentences at the moment or even make eye contact with Napoleon. Like it had been his fault that Napoleon is hurt, like he had abandoned him for too long instead of quickly checking on him like he always does. He should have known better than to leave him alone.

“Solo, sit up,” he says again, this time with a firmer tone to his voice. 

“Can’t. My head’s spinning a little,” Napoleon answers with a groan. His eyes are closed and the pained expression he’s wearing heightens Illya’s worry. 

“I hope there’s no concussion, Solo.”

Hearing that, Napoleon peeks one open eye at Illya. He smiles. “No concussion, Peril.”

“Then sit up. Please.”

Instead of doing what he’s asked to do, Napoleon still lies there, head on the pillows with his right hand still pressing onto his bruised head. Damn, Illya never thought the American could be this frustrating when he is garnering for Illya’s attention. Having enough of Napoleon’s somewhat childish antics (although Illya still feels terrible he hadn’t attended to him sooner, doesn’t think the feeling will go away anytime soon), he quickly grabs hold of his wrist, pulls his hand away from the swollen skin. And Illya then looks at Napoleon, not noticing the growing rate of his own heart beat. He is still holding on to Napoleon’s wrist and Napoleon, doesn’t try to pull his hand free, just stares right back into Illya’s blue eyes.

Illya breathes. Napoleon does the same.

“Ice, Illya.”

Napoleon says those two words, breaks the moment, breaks their eye contact and turns his head to look at the icepack in Illya’s other hand, the one that’s not holding firmly onto his wrist. Pulled out of his trance, Illya nods and slowly peels his eyes away from Napoleon and starts to gently hold the said icepack over his injured forehead. At the contact, Napoleon takes a deep breath and closes his eyes once again.

“Thanks, Peril.”

Illya just hums, as if talking at that moment requires an enormous effort from him. And then he lets his mind wander, remembers a saying that says silence is golden. Somehow, he wants to shoot the person who had said it. Really. Because the silence currently is not golden for Illya. It is pure torture. And he doesn’t know what’s the matter with him, _with them_ , at the moment. 

Illya holds his breath. He’s certain that Napoleon’s feeling the uneasiness as well. The Russian feels an urge to start a conversation, any kind of word utterances, and he does not care if it’s the dumbest thing he could think of. Because he could not stand the silence any longer. That’s when Illya suddenly realises Napoleon has leaned up on his elbow and has removed the icepack from his injured forehead. Illya wonders how long he had stayed there with Napoleon without uttering a single word. Quickly, he takes the icepack from Napoleon and disappears inside the bathroom.

When he reappears again, he sees Napoleon has leaned up against the headboard of the bed, and is now petting the empty space by his side, gesturing for Illya to come over. Now that’s not a really good idea, Illya thinks. He should really decline and tell Cowboy that his chess game is waiting for him outside, or that Gaby is just in the next room and probably wondering what they are up to, or that he’s tired and wants to retire to his own room. But damn, all of those reasonings are thrown out the window because his legs, somehow, have a mind of their own and soon he finds himself propped up next to Napoleon’s side.

“I know you’re not responsible for me every time I get injured. I was just joking when I said I was expecting you in the bathroom earlier. I too can take care of myself.”

Illya is left a little stunned at that. Had Napoleon somehow heard his earlier conversation with Gaby? Does Napoleon think he is becoming a burden to Illya? Hating the thought, the Russian turns at once and grabs both of Napoleon’s arms in a firm grip, forces him to look at Illya in the eye.

“I do not care if I have to care for you each time you get into trouble, Solo. It’s just that...”

Illya falters as he searches for the right words to use, does not want to send any conflicting ideas to his partner, but as Illya contemplates, Napoleon thinks he has an inkling of what is troubling Illya at the moment.

“You worry that the next time shit happens to me, it will end up me being in a body bag and you can’t do anything about it.”

“What? How can you possibly know this?” Illya asks, totally caught off guard. His eyes narrow on Napoleon. “Are you some kind of psychic, Cowboy?”

“Me? A psychic? Nah,” Napoleon chuckles, then shrugs his shoulders at Illya, “but maybe I am one when it comes to a certain Russian I hold dear to my heart.”

“Are you mocking me?” Illya growls. Napoleon just shakes his head.

“I’m serious, Illya.”

Illya feels heat rising up his cheeks at that, turning them a deep shed of red. Damn it, why is Napoleon making his heart flutter? He lets go of Napoleon from his hold but Napoleon quickly grabs his arm, preventing him from getting off the bed. 

“Stay with me?” he says, and then there are those distracting blue eyes, hopeful and wanting, and how on earth can Illya possibly say no to that? 

“I will stay,” Illya murmurs in the end, and upon hearing that, Napoleon’s face brightens like he is happy. Smiling, he lies back down, curls forward on the bed, his face now slightly hidden at the crook of Illya’s elbow. Instinctively, Illya’s fingers start to card through Napoleon’s hair, gently massaging his scalp, making him sigh. Then, his other hand comes up to stroke his face, thumb skimming at Napoleon’s bruise.

“You’re pathetic, Cowboy,” Illya says, but his eyes have softened on his partner, his voice warm and gentle. Napoleon glances up at him and pouts.

“I’m injured, I’m allowed to be one. And I love what you’re doing to me at the moment.” 

“Just shut up and sleep, Solo.”

A soft kiss is then pressed on his temple and Napoleon tilts his head slightly, manages to capture Illya’s lips before he could pull away. Illya gasps at the contact, startled at first, but soon his fingers are curling around the nape of Napoleon’s neck, reciprocating and accepting the American’s gentle probing tongue that is causing haywire to his nervous system. He takes in the quiet moans escaping Napoleon’s mouth, takes him all in, until he is practically lying on top of his partner. The soft, languid kiss continues for a while until Napoleon murmurs, “This is what I've been waiting for.”

“You. Are devious,” Illya breathes against his lips.

His arms are braced on either side of Napoleon’s shoulders as he studies the man underneath him with curious eyes. Napoleon just looks up at Illya and purrs contentedly.

“Devious and pathetic.”

“And very distracting.”

Napoleon grins then reaches out a hand to cup Illya’s face. “I’ll try not to make you worry too much after this, although, in my defence, today’s incident was really your girlfriend’s fault.”

“ _Nyet!_ Gaby is not my...”

Napoleon knows what Illya is going to say, so he pulls him down by his shirt sleeve so he could kiss him again, silences the Russian, and once again Illya is defeated. Who would think this American would be Illya’s ultimate weakness?

As he lets himself get lost in the kiss, Illya realises his list of Napoleon’s traits (of the ones he love and the ones that frustrates him), and of what he is willing to do for Napoleon, keeps growing each and every time he learns of something new about his Cowboy. 

And Illya, unfortunately, will just have to learn how to keep up with it.


End file.
